


Miles a Minute

by XaviaAndromedovna



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Background Grimmons, Gym class, Homophobia, Is it still considered tutoring if it's sports?, Locker Room, M/M, Pre-Slash, Running, The Mile Run, Tutoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 11:12:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10615710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XaviaAndromedovna/pseuds/XaviaAndromedovna
Summary: Donut has to run The Mile in gym class.  Luckily, he has a little help from the cute new guy on the track team.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "running track" square on the Medic card for RvB Bingo Wars! Also, I don't run, so pretend I know what I'm talking about.

Donut gets that he’s a “walking stereotype” sometimes, but that’s just part of his charm. And besides, femmes are fabulous; if he wants to wear make-up to school and whistle showtunes and ask questions about anal in sex ed, then damn it that’s what he’s gonna do. It’s not like people would beat him up any less if he didn’t.

As such, he is firmly in the doesn’t-participate-in-gym-class camp, along with most of his friends. The girls and he are much more interested in having an excuse to wear booty shorts and gossip about how cute the boys in their class are. And before he gets asked for the twentieth time, _no_ he doesn’t watch the boys shower or change their clothes, because consent is important and that’s one stereotype he doesn’t need to perpetuate. But out of the locker room ogling is totally fair game.

Anyway, today in gym is the day they do The Mile, which is gonna suck, but they need to do it to pass so they’re gearing up to sweat slightly more than they’re used to. The gym teacher, a man known only as Sarge, blows his whistle to get everyone’s attention. “Okay dirtbags, you know the drill, you have to complete the mile in the allowed timeframe to pass. Boys, you have 10 minutes, ladies you have 15.” SHIT. Donut forgot boys had a different requirement, and there’s no way Sarge would let him run with the girls. This is reaaaally gonna suck.

When Sarge calls start, Donut reluctantly bypasses his friends and sprints the first thousand feet. Then he can’t breathe. He slows to a somewhat generously-defined jog for several minutes before trying again. He stops and starts several times as the boys in his class breeze past him. Only Simmons and Grif are behind him; it’s pretty cute actually, because Grif is pretending not to care about the mile and acting like he’s holding Simmons back when really he’s staying by Simmons’ side through his asthma attacks. Donut considers hanging back with them out of solidarity, but he ships it too hard to ruin the moment.

As the finish line comes in sight he hears Sarge shout out “9 minutes! Get the lead out boys!” He tries to kick it into overdrive but running is not his thing. The coach shouts “10 MINUTES” just as Donut crosses the line. “Tough break, Donut, 10:01.23”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Tell you what, son. You can try again after school today but if you can’t do it then you fail the unit.”

“Please, I’ll do it. I can’t fail gym again I need to graduate next year!”

Sarge pats him on the shoulder. ”Be on the field ready to run by 4pm.” He proceeds to berate Grif and Simmons as Donut heads for the locker room, annoyed and exhausted. The boys give their perfunctory glare when he enters, accompanied with sneers and vaguely homophobic jokes about his time. He rolls his eyes and changes into his street clothes, desperately needing a shower but knowing it would just make things worse. Today is gonna be a long day.

When the bell rings at 2:45, he gets changed and heads to the field. It not like he has anything better to do since his friends don’t have to stay after, so he might as well warm up. When he gets there, there’s already another boy running laps on the field. He looks familiar, but Donut isn’t sure he’s met him before. Oh, unless he’s that last-minute transfer from the next school over, the guy everyone just calls ‘Doc’. He’s tall but somewhat lanky, with a medium complexion and short black hair, and while he’s covered in sweat he seems very peaceful as he makes his laps. Donut sits down on the bench and watches, transfixed. He makes running seem so natural, so graceful, so… hot.

Eventually, Doc catches him watching and slows down in front of him with a smile, jogging in place. “Hi! Did you want to run with me?”

Donut, who was half-expecting him to yell at him for staring, stammers uncharacteristically. “What? I… ummm… no thank you, I have to run the mile about an hour from now, I should probably save my energy.”

“That makes sense,” he runner says. “Just make sure to stay hydrated and to pace yourself.”

”Will do!” Donut replies. “Thanks.”

Doc holds out his hand. “I don’t think we’ve met, I’m Frank DuFresne, but everyone calls me Doc for some reason.”

“Hey, I’m Frank too!” Donut exclaims, taking his hand enthusiastically. “Franklin Delano Donut, at your service!”

“Donut? That’s… unique.”

“That’s me!” The boys smile fondly at each other, and if Donut didn’t know any better he’d think Doc was flirting.

“Well,” Doc says, “if you ever want any pointers on running, let me know.”

“Actually, since you’re offering, how do I umm… you know, not die?”

“Ah, so you have to make sure you don’t spend all your energy too fast. You have to find your rhythm and stick with it. You’ll lose too much time if you have to keep slowing down.”

“But what if my rhythm is too slow?”

“It might be at first, but if you save that burst of energy for the last leg you can probably pull it off. In fact, why don’t you jog around a bit with me? You should really warm up your muscles.”

”Oh, no, I don’t want to interrupt your practice.”

“You’re not! Track doesn’t practice today, I just like to get some running in after a stressful day.”

“You’re on the track team?”

“I sure am! Who better to learn how to run from?”

Can’t argue with that logic. And if it means he gets to stay in close proximity with a cute jock, then he’s not gonna complain. They jog around for a bit and Doc shows him how to find his rhythm. It doesn’t make sense at first but then it just clicks. In the rush of it, he takes off around the track, and only a couple minutes later realizes Doc has stopped running and moved off to the sidelines. Donut starts to slow down but Sarge shouts at him to keep going from next to Doc. The run had already started. “You’re doing great!” Doc encourages. “Focus on the rhythm!”

Donut shuts out the pressure of the clock, his grade, his new maybe crush watching. Instead, he just runs. Eventually, Doc tells him it’s the last lap, and Donut kicks it into high gear. He runs like he’s never run before, sweat smudging his make-up again and soaking through his crop-top. When he crosses the finish line, he collapses and catches his breath. Doc and Sarge come up to him with giant smiles. “9:52.49! Y’know, son, if you kept up with it you might actually have a shot at being a decent runner. I’m sure the track team could use some new bodies.”

”Absolutely!” Doc chimes in. “You have the makings of a great runner!”

“I’m more of a pitcher, really. But I guess I do have stamina.”

Doc seems unfazed but Sarge glares at him, annoyed at his copious innuendos. “Just think about it. After all, if you’re on the team you don’t have to take gym next year.”

“Thanks, Sarge!” When the older man leaves, Doc and Donut keep talking all the way to the locker rooms. Suddenly, Doc gets very shy and starts to blush. It’s really cute, but he knows this is not the situation to notice that. They agree to meet up after school the next day to run, and in a fit of boldness Donut adds his number into Doc’s phone. If they’re gonna be running buddies, they should at least have each other’s numbers. They part ways and Donut has a tired smile on his face the whole ride home on the late bus. Maybe running isn’t so bad after all.


End file.
